Woebegone

I’ve got a job. The house is too much like death. I never leave, the walls watch me, they see all my secrets like the moon. I’m afraid they’ll start talking and tell him the things I do when he’s out. I’m working at a café called Bones. It’s an odd name, but the owner used to work at a graveyard. He says he’s fascinated by bones, and he liked my collarbones especially, which is part of the reason he hired me. The waitress’s here are all bones wearing skin coats. I float around and deliver coffee’s and small slices of cakes and sandwiches cut perfect in half. Some day’s I turn up to work high and no one ever notices, but people give me more compliments because I’m happier. One boy leaves a note on the table with his number. He smelt of smoke and wore big glasses and had a cappuccino and chocolate muffin alone. I go to throw the number in the bin, but hold onto it for a moment. Sometimes I think about cheating on him, just to hurt him in hopes that he will leave. I don’t like pulling him down into the darkness. The number ends up in the bin anyway.

I hate that he loves me.